


Octopus

by ohlooktheresabee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Background Case, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romantic Fluff, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29510544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlooktheresabee/pseuds/ohlooktheresabee
Summary: Sherlock is starting to get used to the idea of being in a romantic relationship with John; slowly becoming more and more comfortable - that is until he overhears John say something that makes him question it all...Meanwhile, the boss of a foreign crime syndicate is not exactly thrilled to find out that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have foiled his latest scheme - but with Sherlock suitably distracted, he wonders if he might just be able to pull of his plans after all...ARTWORK by freedomattack
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](https://ibb.co/34Kv8Bx)

Sherlock Holmes had a new absolute-favorite place to be, and time of day to be there. Some might assume that it would be midnight, sneaking into some well-protected lair of a master criminal. Others might think that it would be early afternoon in the morgue, conducting experiments on the recently departed. Still others would believe that it was somewhere locked in his own head - where time no longer mattered anymore or served any real purpose. 

But, they would all be wrong. It was early morning, when either alarm or the noise of the world woke him up, and it was in his bed, at Baker Street. 

Now, you may be forgiven for wondering what made this his new favorite place; after all, he was not new to the flat, or the room, or the furniture. However, what was new, was the other person who now joined him in his bed every night - or whenever they happened to fall into it, together. John Watson. 

It had been an absolute revelation, the first time John had slept beside him. More so even than the kisses that had preceded it - as, though they were very lovely as well, Sherlock had assumed that once they were done and John realized Sherlock was not very interested in further types of physical intimacy, John would go and disappear off to his own room - and sadly, perhaps to his very own flat. 

That had not happened. John had been understanding and accepting, extraordinarily so, and they had fallen asleep holding hands; something Sherlock had never, ever done before. He had woken up several times that first night - body on alert due to the change in circumstances, but in each instance had been reassured at the familiar image of John, and had moved incrementally closer to his strong, grounding presence. 

In the morning, he had been woken up by a soft chuckle, just above his ear. He had assessed the situation and felt his heart sink: because he was holding onto John with both arms and legs in what might kindly be termed, ‘a psychotic death-grip’. 

John was lying flat on his back. His arms were pinned to his sides, as somehow Sherlock had got one arm underneath him and thrown the other over his chest. John’s legs were similarly pinioned - there was no way for him to move at all without doing something quite dramatic. 

Mortified, Sherlock had released him immediately, intending to scoot back over to the edge of the bed, but John just turned and slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist, still chuckling fondly. Sherlock had hidden his face until it stopped burning, and thankfully John had not said a further word about either that or their waking position, so once Sherlock calmed down he gradually forgot about it over the course of the day. 

Unfortunately, it was soon apparent that this was not going to be an isolated incident. The next morning, he awoke in the ‘big spoon’ position, hands firmly gripped over John’s chest, ankles wrapped around his feet. John, lovely John, had merely woken up when he felt Sherlock tense, put his arms and hands over Sherlock’s arms and hands, and gone back to sleep. 

The next morning, he was literally on top of John - face straight down next to John’s neck, arms wrapped under John’s armpits, legs only managing to capture one of John’s this time. He had woken up to the sound of John sneezing lightly at the tickle of curly hair, and Sherlock had felt very guilty at John’s obviously aroused state. 

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John had said calmly as once again Sherlock tried to disengage and escape. “I react this way because I like you, that’s all. Calm down and come back here.” Keeping firmly away from John’s lower-half, Sherlock had timidly wrapped his arms back around his chest from the side, cautiously happy to hear John’s sigh of contentment. 

Sherlock didn’t know what to think. The way his transport was behaving through the night and into the morning was greatly at odds with how he preferred to comport himself during his waking hours. He didn’t like to be touched - at least, by anyone other than John - and he certainly was not the instigator of any touches. He liked to sit straight, stand tall, keep a certain rigidity to his movements while moving with precision - even in his most over-dramatic moods when he flopped onto the nearest surface, it was all choreographed and controlled. 

Then at night, he fell asleep similarly in control, only to find each morning that his body had moved to get what it apparently wanted without any conscious effort on his part. It disturbed him to some degree - but he thought it was better not to bring that up to John. He liked (loved, if he were being honest with himself) waking up that way; he just didn’t like that it was all happening ‘without him’. 

Thankfully, John didn’t seem to mind. He would chuckle - a happy, sleepy sound that Sherlock kept in a glowing bottle in his mind palace - or he would hum, or he would rub his hand up and down Sherlock’s back, or arms when he awoke. Often he was awake before Sherlock, already smiling at his most recent morning predicament. And every time, when he saw Sherlock’s brain leap straight to the worst case scenario, John would pull his mind and body back until they were both together and comfortable again. 

After a few weeks of this, Sherlock was starting to get used to it. No more did he immediately think of putting fresh distance between them - because he didn’t want to. He squashed the idea that John must mind, supported by John’s actions to keep him in place. The thing that still bothered him though was that in his nightly expedition across the mattress to wherever it was John happened to be, he was merely along for the ride. No, he did not like that part at all. He wanted to know what it was like, to instigate, to begin, … to be welcomed. 

So, he decided to try it out when they were awake. It was with some anxiety that he waited for an opportune time. He wanted to be able to approach John in a way that John knew what was happening, but wasn’t watching him too closely. He didn’t think he could follow through if he was too nervous, which he would definitely be if his Watson fixed him with that curious, sky-blue stare. One day when he was at the kitchen table recording the activity of cells through his microscope, he saw his chance.

John had come in, ruffled his hair and kissed him on the cheek. The first time he had done that weeks prior, Sherlock had nearly toppled off his stool in surprise - but now he knew that there was a 78% chance of John performing the same action each time he sat there, he was more prepared. He accepted the affection but didn’t move from what he was doing, as was his pattern, and John gave his familiar fond chuckle and moved off to do the washing up. 

Heart pounding in his throat, Sherlock looked up from the microscope and stared for a second at John’s back, realizing that this was about as good as it was going to get. He stood up, fidgeted with the cuff of his dressing gown for a moment, internally debating if this was in fact a terrible idea… but his feet started moving and he had to remind himself that this was him doing this, not the independent actions of his wily body. 

John glanced back at him with a smile, knowing he was there, but then went back to cleaning the plates and cutlery from the previous evening. Hovering uncertainly for a moment, Sherlock realized if he didn’t move now then this was going to tip over into strange and awkward… so he took a deep breath, stepped up closer to John, and put his arms around him. 

The effect was instantaneous - John  _ melted  _ in place, and made a happy little humming sound. 

“Hmmmm, hello,” he said, twisting a little to the side and up to put a peck onto Sherlock’s jaw. “Coming for a visit?” 

“I… yes,” Sherlock said, loving John so very much in that moment that he thought he would just evaporate with it. How easy John made everything! A visit,  _ perfect. _

Emboldened, Sherlock brought his head down and rested his chin on John’s shoulder, his cheek against the side of his head. John hummed again, and Sherlock could feel him smiling. He tightened his hold, stepped even closer, until he was flush up against John from shin to chest. John craned his head back, and Sherlock returned the peck to the jaw, feeling happier than he had done for a long time. 

“You know, you could actually help with these once in a while,” said John conversationally when he looked back to the dirty water. “It’s not a spectator sport.” 

“You don’t like the way I do it,” Sherlock reminded him, nuzzling the side of his face a little. 

“I don’t like how you put everything in the sink, fill it with water, get distracted and run off leaving it for me to find all cold and gross - you're right,” agreed John, with no real bite. His posture was relaxed and pliant in Sherlock’s arms, and for once Sherlock allowed himself to recognize that if he had the choice, he would keep John there forever. 

*****************************

So, Sherlock’s favorite place to be was wrapped around John. He instigated in the kitchen - draped himself over John’s body, coiled around it, whether he was at the sink, the stove, or the table. He did it on the couch - tangled their legs together, using his long limbs to best advantage. He had considered how he might manage it on John’s armchair… but then he would need John’s active and willing participation, and he wasn’t ready yet to have an outright conversation about it all, preferring the illusion that it was all just some kind of accident. 

Not that John seemed unhappy - not at all. He still initiated plenty as well. He liked giving Sherlock a foot-rub, on those rare occasions when Sherlock released him so he could reach his feet. Hand massages too; he appeared to get lost in the motions of taking care of Sherlock’s hands, particularly in cleaning the rosin off from around his nails after he had been playing the violin. And hair-ruffles - glorious, glorious hair ruffles, whenever he was walking by and Sherlock was seated. Sherlock loved those most of all. 

They had not yet revealed the change in their relationship to anyone outside of 221B. Not through any kind of spoken agreement - Sherlock assumed that it was more that there was nothing much to tell. They weren’t sleeping together and never would be (apart from in the literal sense), and though John assured him repeatedly that it wasn’t an issue and he was fully committed to Sherlock, Sherlock still wondered if John didn’t consider this a ‘real’ relationship. 

“Of course it is, Sherlock,” John had said one morning into Sherlock’s neck, having woken up in his grasp once again. “I’m yours, and you’re mine. The rest is just… details.”

In his head, Sherlock had asked the question -  _ So can I tell other people that you’re mine? _ But he hadn’t dared speak it aloud, afraid of the answer. Plus, he consoled himself, if it was going to remain a secret, that was still better than the lonely and touch-free days of before. Now he was allowed to wrap John Watson up like the precious thing he was, he didn’t ever want to let him go again. 

Of course, it could only stay a secret for so long.

****************************

It happened on a case, of all places. Sherlock and John had been helping the Yard track down various arms of an Albanian crime syndicate. This was not the kind of thing that Sherlock usually bothered with, but then there had been some high-profile kidnappings and both Mycroft and Lestrade had asked him to intervene. He had held firm, until John heard that the latest kidnapping victim was a child. One look at John’s devastated face, and Sherlock had given in. 

They had closed in on the child’s whereabouts due to various clues that Sherlock had managed to glean along the way, but when he had worked out the current location there had been no time to lose - he had sent off a text to Lestrade, then he and John had high-tailed it over, lest the perpetrators escape with their five-year old captive. It had been laughably easy to break into the warehouse. Slightly less easy was fighting off the three men who had seen them do so. 

The first, Sherlock and John had overpowered, together. The remaining two were proving a bit more tenacious. Sherlock dodged and weaved in order to avoid the clumsily thrown fists heading first for his face and then his chest. He spun to one side, and his assailant howled with pain as he ended up punching the wall. A feint to the left, a jump to the right, and Sherlock was able to punch him directly in the throat. The man made a satisfying gasping sound as he went down, good hand still clutching in Sherlock’s direction, eyes murderous. 

Sherlock turned away, panting with effort, just in time to see John take a solid hit to the ribs with a brick. He heard John grunt with pain, and then was across the room and lifting the attacker up and off his feet with a strength and fury he didn’t even know he had. Snarling, he dropped the man like a bag of coal onto the floor, then dove on top of him, fists flying. 

“Sher… Sh’rlock…” 

At the rasping sound of his voice, Sherlock dropped his raised fist, turned his head, eyes scanning over John. John who was kneeling on the ground, both hands pressed over his side. John who was having trouble breathing. 

Barely resisting the urge to  _ strangle  _ the unconscious man beneath him, Sherlock jumped off him with disgust and trotted to John’s side. 

“John,” he breathed, adrenaline and exhaustion causing him to feel far off-balance. “How bad is it?” he asked, dropping like a stone to kneel at John’s side. 

“S’bad,” John grunted. He was taking careful, shallow breaths. “Defin’tly brok’n.”

_ Broken.  _

John was broken!

Sherlock fluttered his hands helplessly over John’s, then remembered himself and fished out his phone. Lestrade had replied that they were on their way, and even as Sherlock sent off a new text that they were in need of an ambulance, he heard the sirens getting closer. 

John sank down even further; slumped to one side, knees and legs off to the other, both arms wrapped protectively around his middle, wincing in pain. 

Heart racing, Sherlock’s body decided it knew what to do, even if he didn’t. He shuffled around to John’s uninjured side, and wrapped him up as gently as he could. His left arm stretched around John’s back, his right around his collar bone. His legs tangled with John’s on the dirty floor. John continued to wheeze, but he leaned against Sherlock’s chest. 

With every pained breath, Sherlock fancied another of his own ribs was fractured. 

Then there were people - lots of people. Lestrade was in there somewhere, and paramedics, and they all seemed to be saying the same ridiculous thing:  _ let go. _ Sherlock felt dizzy, and cold, and wished that they would start making sense - because ‘let go’ meant letting go of John, and that was, of course, completely impossible. 

“Sh’lock,” John whispered against Sherlock’s throat.

“Hmmm?” he asked distractedly, squinting at the strangers who were inexplicably staring at them. The child that they had been searching for was surrounded by a group of officers, quiet and watchful. Sherlock stared at her, and she stared right back.

“You ‘ve to let go ‘f me,” John said from within his hold, then he coughed, shuddering.

Sherlock increased his grip. 

“It’ll be OK,” John said, voice still low but calm. “Jus’ a fracture. Go with L’strade.”

“Yeah, Sherlock. You can ride with me. Come on now, let go of John and let the paramedics get to him.” Lestrade’s voice floated somewhere off to the side. 

“John?” Sherlock asked, head pounding with some unnamed fear. 

“It’ll be OK,” John repeated. “I pr’mise.”

Sherlock glanced dubiously around. Lestrade was crouched on the floor next to them, keeping his distance but exuding calm professionalism. On the other side were two paramedics, who looked torn between joining in with the cajoling, and physically prying Sherlock away from their patient and sedating him. 

With extreme reluctance, Sherlock uncoiled from his position around John, limbs stiff and clumsy. As soon as he did, the paramedics closed in, and it was only Lestrade’s firm grip on his shoulder that stopped Sherlock from trying to flatten both of them. 

John followed him with his eyes, even as they palpated his side, prepared an IV, put a mask over his nose. His eyes twinkled at Sherlock, and Sherlock felt the fear start to recede. When they lifted John on the scoop, Sherlock realized he had been sitting on the floor, and accepted Lestrade’s hand as he slowly got to his feet. When they moved the scoop into the back of the ambulance, he took an abortive step forwards. 

“No, mate. You can’t go in there, you know that. We’ll meet them at the hospital. Come on,” Lestrade said in a soothing tone, tugging at Sherlock’s sleeve. John’s eyes were still locked with Sherlock’s, and he smiled reassuringly. Sherlock could see the little crinkles around his eyes as the ambulance doors closed. 

He allowed Lestrade to nudge him towards his car, climbed in slowly, feeling like his limbs were far too long. The ambulance went past them, and Lestrade started the car and followed. It took a few minutes to get out of the warehouse area and onto the main roads, Sherlock’s eyes glued to the back of the ambulance the entire time. Then they were moving at speed towards the nearest hospital, and more of the upset that had gripped his heart for the past twenty minutes started to fade away. 

“So, you and John,” Lestrade said warmly, in an obvious attempt to distract him. 

Flushing, Sherlock glanced at his curious face then looked out of his side window. He had a sudden horrid thought that John was going to be upset about his behavior in front of their peers back at the warehouse. What had he been  _ thinking?  _

That was just it - nothing. John had been in pain, and next thing he knew, Sherlock had been grafted to his side like a new limb. He hadn’t cared at all who saw them, hadn’t even noticed. 

“How long’s that been going on for then?” Lestrade prodded, having received no answer. 

Sherlock fidgeted. 

“Hey, come on,” Lestrade said then, voice a little chiding. “It’s me. I’m happy for you, both of you.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled, wishing with all his might that the journey be over.

“You’re welcome,” Lestrade said, and mercifully fell silent as the first signs for the hospital appeared in the road. 

********************************************

The wait at the hospital had been awful. Sherlock couldn’t get comfortable in the stupid plastic chairs, the place smelled wrong, and Lestrade kept giving him this fond, concerned look that was driving him absolutely mad. He felt like he was going to start climbing the walls, and took to pacing up and down the short stretch of hallway separating them from the ER rooms.

John had three fractured ribs plus excess air in his chest, and the consultant had explained how they were going to draw it out, then take x rays. Sherlock had stared at him stupidly until Lestrade had thanked him, then stared at Lestrade instead. 

“How about we go get some air?” Lestrade had asked, worriedly, but Sherlock just shook his head and got back to pacing. 

A while later, when Sherlock was sure he would soon wear a path through the linoleum floor tiles, a brusque nurse informed them that Dr. Watson had now been moved to a ward, and they could go and visit him. 

Sherlock was off like a shot, leaving Lestrade’s resigned call of his name far behind as he hurtled through the halls towards the wards. Fortunately (or unfortunately), he and John knew all the London hospitals quite well, so it was easy enough to track down the right one. He jogged into the room, not bothering with the reception desk but instead scanning underneath the curtains until he spotted a familiar pair of shoes on the floor, no doubt where the staff had left them. He found himself coming to a sudden stop then, hesitating. He had a niggling feeling that John was going to be annoyed with him, mixed with the vague notion that recuperating people were not to be disturbed…

“Sherlock? That you, lurking out there?”

Swallowing, Sherlock drew the curtain aside, but then a lot of the tension he was carrying fell away of its own accord. 

John was propped up on some pillows, wearing hospital scrubs, looking tired but happy - so happy - just at the sight of Sherlock standing there. He stretched out a hand towards him, the other resting at his side with an IV, and Sherlock edged closer, taking the outstretched hand but at as far as distance as possible. John’s smile faltered a little. 

“Hey,” he said, tugging on Sherlock’s hand. “I’m OK. Just got to rest up for a few weeks, that’s all.” His voice was a lot stronger and steadier than back in the warehouse, but there was still a hesitancy to it, like he was afraid to breathe too deeply. 

Sherlock edged a little closer, eyes raking up and down John’s body, looking for more signs of injury or upset. Somewhere under that shirt there was a puncture wound where they had gone in to drain the air, by now covered with surgical padding and tape - but still there. 

John tugged at his hand again, more insistent. Sherlock stepped up to his side, eyes now roving all over his face. If you didn’t know what had happened, you would think he was merely exhausted, or fighting a flu. 

“Talk to me, Sherlock,” John said, rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand. 

Sherlock blinked at him, then realized that  _ he could not talk. _ He could not talk, because though the tension had drained away, it seemed it had lodged in his throat, and if he opened his mouth then… He blinked furiously, and John squeezed his hand. John then held his other arm up, spread it wide, the IV line trailing over the bedsheets. 

“Come on, then,” he said gently, and with a strange noise that he himself didn’t recognize, Sherlock crouched down by the bed and ever-so-gently leaned over to hug John in his bed. 

“I’m alright,” John murmured, and he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock pulled back slightly, staring at John’s lips, before leaning in to initiate a kiss - the first time he had done so. John hummed against his lips, and it was somehow comforting. His free hand threaded into Sherlock’s hair, petting him as if he were a frightened animal. 

“John, is that… oh, sorry,” Lestrade’s voice. Sherlock looked up just in time to see his coat disappearing back behind the curtain. 

“Greg,” John called, squeezing Sherlock’s hand again, but Sherlock quickly extricated himself and stood by the bed, hands shoved firmly into his pockets and face flaming. 

Lestrade peeked in, then grinned. 

“John, mate. You had us worried there!” he said, walking over to clap John on the shoulder with an easy camaraderie that Sherlock envied all the way down to his toes. 

“I’ll be fine,” John said, smiling, but shot a glance at Sherlock, who to his shame dropped his gaze to his shoes. 

“Great,” said Lestrade, but when Sherlock looked up again, it was he who the man was looking at. He looked… speculative, but then it cleared. 

“Why don’t you go find John something to eat?” he said. Sherlock blinked, looked to John. John also had some kind of complicated look on his face. “There’s a cafeteria round the back,” Lestrade went on. “Bet you don’t have any cash on you, right? Here’s twenty quid, go bring back something good for the doctor here.” 

Sherlock took the note that was thrust at him, nonplussed. Go away? 

Go away from John?

He looked over at him again. John was looking at Lestrade, but then he smiled at Sherlock in encouragement. 

“Actually I am pretty hungry, now you mention it,” he said, and it was like the part of Sherlock’s brain that had been paralyzed, chanting John’s name and nothing else, surged back into life. 

“OK,” he said, voice croaking. He cleared his throat, tried again. “I’ll be back soon.” John grinned, gave him two cheesy thumbs up. Sherlock gave him a quick, tense smile, then forced his legs to move, and walked away. 

****************************

“.... so out of it.” Lestrade was saying. 

Sherlock had got halfway to the cafeteria when he heard a couple bemoaning the fact that it was closed already. He had found a working vending machine and headed straight back to the ward, but something about Lestrade’s voice made him pause. He kept far enough back that the two occupants wouldn’t be able to see his feet, but close enough that he could hear what they were saying. 

“... in shock,” said John. He sounded very worried. “He wasn’t even talking to me.”

“He obviously cares about you a lot,” said Lestrade, and it sounded kind. 

“Yeah, and I care a lot about him, too,” said John, and Sherlock scolded himself for hovering. He was just about to go in, when,

“Thought he was never going to let you go,” Lestrade said with a chuckle. 

“Yeah,” John agreed with a little laugh. “It’s funny really, I never expected that he would be like that.”

_ Funny? _ Sherlock thought, surprised.

“What, cuddly?”

“Clingy.”

Sherlock’s stomach turned to ice. 

“Aww. Well it’s all new to him. He’s probably not got a lot of experience. I was pretty clingy too with my first love,” said Greg in a wistful tone of voice. “‘Course, that was back in high school.”

_ High school, _ Sherlock thought, mortified. 

“Oh, I don’t mind it, not at all,” John said quickly. “It’s endearing. Sweet, really.”

_ Sweet! _

“Didn’t look sweet back in the warehouse, mate. He looked like he’d rip the arms off anyone who tried to get at you.” 

John laughed in response, and Sherlock was suddenly reminded of all the sleepy little chuckles John had made in the mornings, when he woke up to find himself entangled again in Sherlock’s embrace. He had thought John was amused by the situation, but had he…

Had John been  _ laughing at him? _

“Seriously, though, you’re good for him. He’s so different to how he used to be,” Lestrade said. “He used to be so cold, so remote.  _ ‘Consulting detective, I don’t need anyone.’ _ Now look at him!”

“Yes,” John agreed. “Now he’s my very own consulting octopus!”

Sherlock staggered a few steps away, staring at the closed curtain in horror. 

_ Octopus. _

_ Cold, remote. Clingy. Octopus.  _

He turned, walked back out of the ward, sank down into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, arms still full of snack food. 

He knew he’d been taking this too far. Knew that he shouldn’t have started initiating, shouldn’t have allowed his traitorous body to migrate across the mattress every night in his sleep. He had crossed some invisible line, gone from normal adult behaviour over into something childish and inappropriate. Something that was too much. Not good. 

_ Clingy. _

_ Octopus.  _

He stared down at the items in his hands, relaxed his grip so he didn’t burst the bags of crisps. He knew that he’d have to go back, hand over the food. He wanted to go back, wanted to see John… but now he knew what he really thought…

So… alright, then. Cold and remote was bad, but apparently so too was  _ clingy. _ Though Sherlock was not well-acquainted with pop-culture, even he knew that it was a derogatory term, used to describe someone who needed too much attention. And on some level, he agreed - he did want a lot of attention. He wanted people to see how intelligent he was, how well he could deduce and solve crimes. He had just thought that… that John was interested in more than that. 

But it was fine. 

He would just need to keep his hands to himself, that’s all. Or… maybe hand-holding was OK. Just not… not ‘octopus’ behavior. So… no clingy hugs. That was fine. He could do that… or rather, he could  _ not  _ do that. No more dramatics. Be more reserved, more… mature? 

It was all very confusing, and something was starting to ache inside his chest. 

He dragged himself back up out of the chair, headed back into the ward. John smiled warmly as soon as he caught sight of him, but Sherlock just deposited the snacks onto his lap. 

“Wasn’t sure what you wanted,” he said, feeling the real meaning of the words. Lestrade snagged a chocolate bar from the pile with a cheeky smile. 

“Thanks, Sherlock,” John said, rooting through the pile. Sherlock stepped back as far as the curtain would allow. 

“When are they letting you out?” Lestrade asked through a mouthful of chocolate. 

“As soon as someone comes to check the stitches,” John said, opening a packet of crisps. “There’s not much else they can do. I’ll just need to be a bit careful for a while, keep them wrapped, no running around after criminals until I stop feeling like I got hit by a car.” He smiled again at Sherlock, so Sherlock nodded, unsure of what he was supposed to say. 

“You’ll be stuck in watching the footie then?” Lestrade asked, jealousy in his tone. 

“Hah! Yeah, I guess.” 

“What do you think of Fullerton’s chances this year?”

They launched into a lively debate about football which lasted until the consultant came around to announce that John was able to go home. Sherlock was relieved - both Lestrade and John had been sending him increasingly curious glances at his lack of involvement (usually he would scoff and destroy their arguments with a brief statistical rundown of why both of their teams were going to be relegated, just for kicks), but he was feeling so wrong-footed that he didn’t know what he should be doing anymore. He just wanted to go home. 

Lestrade dropped them off back at Baker Street, eliciting promises to drop by the Yard the next day and give their statements. Sherlock walked up the stairs behind John, alert for any wobbling, but remaining two steps back so as to give him room. John seemed to be moving fine, but as soon as they were back in the safety of 221B, he sagged against the wall. 

“It’s going to be a long week,” he muttered, hand pressed into his side. The hospital had given him some strong painkillers, but Sherlock knew that he wasn’t allowed to take them again for another two hours. 

“Is lying down better?” he asked, keeping a foot away from John only through the use of his iron will. 

“Not sure,” John said, but then he stood up again and slowly took off his jacket and scarf. Sherlock stepped forward to take them, and John smiled tiredly, patting his arm. He slowly headed towards the bathroom, as Sherlock hung the items up and took off his own coat. 

At a bit of a loss, Sherlock glanced around the room. There were take-out containers on the coffee table where they left them, soy sauce spilled and turning sticky on the surface. On the dining table, there were sheaves of paper scattered around, remnants of his hunt for clues. The incident wall was an explosion of string and information above the couch. 

“I’m going to try to sleep,” John said, and Sherlock startled. He turned to find John leaning against the doorframe. 

“OK,” said Sherlock. Then he remembered - he was going to be more mature. 

Less clingy. 

“I’m going to clean up a bit,” he said, and John’s eyebrows rose towards his hairline. 

“You’re going to clean up?” John repeated faintly. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, turning away and starting to pick up the containers, feeling his ears burn. 

“Now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock repeated. “I’ll wake you in two hours when you can have more painkillers.”

“Oh… OK,” John said. There was a pause, and Sherlock continued scraping all the leftovers into one box, then, “Sherlock, are you OK?”

Sherlock sighed internally, then stood up and turned around. “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well…” John started, but something on Sherlock’s face stopped him, thankfully. The last thing he wanted was a rehashing of his octopus-like behavior in the warehouse earlier. “See you in two hours then,” John said finally, and Sherlock turned away again so he wouldn’t have to see the door close. 

***********************************

A half hour later, and Sherlock was done with cleaning. An hour later, and he was done with pacing. Two hours later, and he was sure he was about to lose his mind if he didn’t get John into his arms _ right this second.  _

He went to the bedroom door, glass of water and pills in hand, and knocked, feeling a little silly. There was a mumbled reply, so he went inside, creeping through the gloom while the shape on the bed groaned. 

“What time is’t?” 

“Three thirty seven.”

“Geez, Sherlock. Come to bed, it’s late.”

“You need your meds,” Sherlock said, switching on the bedside lamp. John groaned again, went to throw a hand over his face, then gasped. He was wide awake now, the movements having awoken the pain again. 

“Uh… you might be right,” he said, breathing shallowly. On his good side, he managed to wriggle up the pillows into a semi-seated position. Sherlock wondered if he should be helping, but by the time he had decided that would probably be acceptable, John was already putting the pills in his mouth and gulping down the water. 

“Thanks,” John said. He put the glass down then rubbed his hand over his eyes. Sherlock picked up the glass, made to step away. “Hey, forget that for now,” John said, hand darting out to grab Sherlock’s wrist. “Come to bed, you must be tired.”

But Sherlock was prepared for this. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, fighting to keep his telltale heart beating at its regular speed. “Your ribs are being held together by bandages and goodwill. You shouldn’t jar them, and we both know I tend to get a bit… Well, your ribs might end up in the wrong place entirely if I sleep next to you.”

He was pleased by how matter-of-fact he sounded. He could find a balance - be a good partner, but not… not an octopus. He was acknowledging the problem and giving a solution. 

“Oh,” John said, sounding disappointed. “But, I don’t mind though, really. I could just wake you up if…”

“It’s not a good idea,” Sherlock said again, more firmly, and John sagged a little against the pillows. “Anyway, I have that spores experiment I wanted to start. You get some rest, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Oh,” John said again. He squeezed Sherlock’s wrist for a moment, and then let go, starting to shuffle back down the bed. 

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said quietly. John looked back at him, frowning, but Sherlock reached under the lamp to turn it off and all was dark again. He slipped out of the room and closed the door, breathed a sigh of relief. 

That hadn’t been too hard. And John would get used to it. They would both get used to it. 

*****************************

Sherlock was surprised when he rolled his stiff neck that the window was already light. When had dawn happened? He was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped up again in his coat and scarf. It had been too cold to sit still enough to view his microscope, but he hadn’t wanted to disturb John by going in for warmer clothes. His experiment had successfully caught his attention, and he had managed not to think about John, or how much he wished he was sleeping next to him, for… oh, it must have been five whole minutes. 

Disgusted with himself, he removed the slide and picked up another, but then his ears picked up a noise from the bedroom. Sure enough, ten minutes later and John emerged, looking still tired but with a healthy bloom in his cheeks. He was dressed already, and walked over with a smile to ruffle Sherlock’s hair. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock said, hoping his tone did not betray just how very much he loved when John did that. 

Mature. 

Reserved. 

“Good morning yourself,” John said happily. “Did you sleep at all?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted, and John chuckled good-naturedly, though it was cut off quickly as he pressed his hand again to his side. 

“Blast. This is going to get annoying quickly,” John sighed with irritation. “Cup of tea?”

“I can make it,” Sherlock said immediately, but John pushed him back down onto his stool with a hand on his shoulder. 

“I think I can handle making tea, don’t fuss,” John said, patting his shoulder once before releasing it. He walked over to the counter, back to Sherlock, and Sherlock was filled with the feeling of his normal compunction to walk over there and wrap his arms around him. He stubbornly looked back into his microscope. 

While waiting for the kettle to boil, he noticed John give him a couple of curious glances over his shoulder. He was trying to be surreptitious about it, but something was obviously bothering him. Perhaps he was confused as to why Sherlock hadn’t joined him as had become their pattern. Maybe he should go over there, just to reassure John...

No. 

_ Octopus.  _

Unable to concentrate, Sherlock decided retreat was the only logical solution. He jumped up and headed into the living room, at first eyeing the couch but then realized that he would be in the same predicament if John came to join him there, too. 

His chair, then. 

He dropped into it, drew his legs up, grasped his hands around his knees. With his coat and scarf on, he felt like he had at least some measure of camouflage to hide behind, should John question his actions. 

“Did you want tea?” John asked from behind him.

“Hmm?” Sherlock said, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, no. No thanks.”

“OK…” John sounded unsure, confused. “I’ll just… I’ll just have a bite to eat, then get caught up on my blog, then.”

“Right,” Sherlock agreed, not turning around, gripping his knees even harder. 

He heard John leave the room again, and relaxed a little in his chair. 

Strategy. He just needed a strategy. Find a balance between being close to John, but not too close. A couple, but not clingy. A partner, not an octopus. 

He sighed, feeling the beginnings of a headache. He was Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective - but he might have just encountered a puzzle that would thwart even him. 

[](https://ibb.co/6bCQ0K5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing artwork by [FreedomAttack](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/freedomattack) \- who has made a new piece for each chapter! Please do not repost her art without permission ;-)
> 
> Thanks to Raechem for beta-ing & if you want to be notified when Chapter 2 is posted, hit the subscribe button. You can also check out my other stuff by clicking on my name at the top of the fic, and have the option to subscribe there too if you want to read anything new I post.
> 
> As ever, I would love to hear from you in the comments!


	2. Chapter 2

A couple of days later, Sherlock heard some rather colourful cursing coming from the kitchen. He set his laptop down and followed the sounds, already guessing (correctly) what he would find - John, glaring at one of the higher cupboards, in pajamas and robe, hand wrapped around his side and swearing. 

“John…”

“I know, alright?  _ I know. _ Don’t reach for things, call you. But you didn’t look like you wanted to be disturbed…”

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock said, as he had done many times since their return from the hospital. “It’s just a few weeks, and you won’t be in pain anymore.” He glanced at the counter and deduced that John was likely reaching for the bag of sugar so he could fill up their jar. He pulled it down and handed it to John, then turned to go back to his chair. 

“Hey,” John said, and Sherlock felt him grab his elbow. “Wait a second.”

Frowning quizzically, Sherlock turned back, wondering what he must have missed - when John stepped forward and wrapped his hands around his middle, chest flush with Sherlock’s.

“Hi,” John said into his chest. Sherlock looked at the top of his head, thrown. John was a hair-ruffler, hand-massager, receiver-of-hugs. He didn’t initiate them. That was Sherlock’s job… well. 

It had been. 

Unsure what to do - an all-too familiar state of affairs these days - Sherlock brought his hands up and patted John a little awkwardly on the shoulder-blades. He felt John stiffen a little in his embrace and felt a phantom ache pass over his arms, like they were straining to do more - but he held fast. 

No. 

Clingy. 

_ Octopus. _

He patted again, and felt John sigh. 

“You aren’t going to break me with a hug, Sherlock,” John admonished, but he pulled back. Sherlock felt the ache in his arms transfer into his chest cavity, and fought the urge to hold his own ribs as John had been doing. John was frowning in confusion and even looking a little… hurt…

“We don’t know that,” Sherlock said, hoping to forestall the conversation. John had tried to bring up Sherlock’s change in behavior a couple of times, but Sherlock knew that the conversation should be avoided or they were both going to end up embarrassed. John had made his real feelings known to Lestrade - he was just coddling Sherlock at home when they were in private, no doubt. No, Sherlock wanted John to be proud and happy about their relationship all the time, even when they were at home. He didn’t want him to have to put up with anything to spare Sherlock’s childish feelings.

Maybe he had gone too far the other way, though. He had managed to be ‘too busy’ to sleep the past three nights, instead catching naps here and there, but he wasn’t going to be able to keep that up. Plus, John looked unhappy, and that was the opposite of what he was trying to achieve. 

“Your ribs are in a delicate stage of healing,” he said, stepping away and back towards his chair. “But… in a few days, I think we should be safe,” he allowed. 

“A few  _ days?” _ John said, sounding completely incredulous. “It’s already been a few days, Sherlock. I know you’re worried about me…”

“You have three fractured ribs, John. It’s not nothing,” he said calmly, picking up his laptop and sitting down. He was glad to have something in his hands to occupy them, because if they had their way they would be holding on to John by now and not letting go. 

“I know it’s not nothing, but…”

“And the wound from the drain is still healing…”

“It’s almost closed, I checked it this morning.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good,” Sherlock said, opening his laptop and affecting an air of distracted conversation. 

John sighed again. 

“Just… you’d tell me, if there was something else, right?” John asked. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the screen, willed his blood not to rush into his face. 

“Something else?”

“Something bothering you. Something I’ve done?”

He looked up at that - couldn’t help it. 

“What on earth could you have done?” he asked, bemused. Yes, it was overhearing John’s comments that had caused Sherlock to hastily erect some much-needed boundaries, but he didn’t fault John for that - he had been right, after all. His previous behavior had been too… much.

“I dunno.” John was fidgeting, and Sherlock looked at him a little closer. Lines of pain that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge were visible on his face, but he also looked tired, and overwrought. Sherlock wondered if perhaps he was having nightmares, or other sleep disturbances. He wouldn’t know of course, having kept away from the room. “I thought…” John faltered, but Sherlock tilted his head in a gesture to continue. “I thought that you might be angry, about the warehouse…”

“Angry? No?” Sherlock said, knowing he sounded as confused as he felt and not minding for once. “Why would I be angry?”

“I got hurt,” John said, like he was admitting some great fault. “I should have been more careful, put that Albanian guy down faster. I was sloppy.”

The urge to hug John suddenly increased by about a thousand percent, making Sherlock’s breath hitch. He covered it with a cough, pressed his thighs firmly into the cushions of his chair to hold himself there. 

“It happens, John. He was a skilled fighter, and you did your best. It’s not your fault you got hurt, it’s his.”

“You took him down easily enough,” John lamented. Sherlock knew he was right, though he barely remembered what had happened. He just knew at the time that the Albanian had to be removed from John, and removed from the situation in which he might further harm John. If John hadn’t called out to him, Sherlock supposed he probably would have beaten the Albanian to death with his bare hands - with not an inch of remorse. 

_ Cold. Remote.  _

“I had the element of surprise,” Sherlock said, coughing again to clear the knot of anxiety from his throat. “It’s not your fault, John,” he repeated. John still looked forlorn, standing there in his pajamas and robe, but Sherlock knew that he was strong and would be fine. He didn’t need a clingy partner bothering him - he just needed to be reminded how strong he was, that was all. “If our situations had been reversed, you would have handled him just as well.”

“You mean if he’d hit  _ you  _ with a brick?” John asked, perking up, but with his grim smile that wasn’t-a-smile. “I’d have killed him.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it - his mouth dropped open. 

“Don’t look so surprised, Sherlock. Remember what happened to the cabbie? And you and I weren’t even involved, then.” John said, stepping forward. Keeping one arm pressed to his side, he ran the other into Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock sighed automatically. “If anyone hurt you now, or tried to hurt you…”

“I… I feel the same,” Sherlock offered, hoping it wasn’t crossing a line. John’s hand continued carding through his hair, so it seemed it was alright. “If you hadn’t stopped me…”

“I know, Sherlock. And it’s alright. But you don’t have to keep protecting me, by staying away. I miss you.”

Sherlock blinked, and John’s hand fell away. The smile was more genuine now, and fond. 

“Come sleep next to me tonight, OK?” John asked, and it seemed like he was making an effort to speak plainly and clearly. Sherlock hesitated, looking first at John’s elbow tucked in close to his injured side, then back to John’s face. 

_ Octopus. _

But… John  _ was  _ asking…

He nodded, and John looked relieved. “Good,” John said, nodding back. He went back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock staring at his laptop screen but not really seeing it. 

Sleep next to John.

How was he going to sleep next to John, but stop his body from performing its nightly octopus routine?

**************************************

“You cannot be serious,” John said, sounding far more aghast than the situation warranted. 

“Perfectly,” Sherlock said, wrapping the towel more securely into place. Already in his pajamas, he had arranged three pillows down the center of the bed and was now wrapping them tightly with two large bath towels to form one, long, barrier. The pillows he had purloined from both John’s old room, and the living room - the Union Jack joining John’s unused pillows within the tube of the fluffy towel wrapping. 

“It’s completely unnecessary,” John protested, folding his arms. He had walked into the bedroom, smile on his face, only to freeze a foot from the bed as he watched Sherlock at work. 

“Hardly,” Sherlock argued, tucking the twisted ends of a towel under the mattress at the end of the bed. “You’re still healing, and…"

“And you think you’re going to hurt me in your sleep? You  _ won’t, _ Sherlock.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock said calmly, running a hand over the top of the ‘wall’ and nodding. “I won’t.”

“But…”

“John,” Sherlock said, properly looking at him for the first time since he wandered sleepily into the room. He looked unhappy, with an edge to it that told Sherlock he wasn’t sure how to deal with his unhappiness. However, Sherlock knew what to do. He had to get John to think of someone else, outside of himself. 

“You want me to sleep next to you, and I will - but I won’t get any sleep at all if… if we don’t take some precautions.” Sherlock watched his words land, watched John struggle with them. He loved that John was being so noble, was able to make space for Sherlock’s childish actions - but he wanted him to see that he didn’t have to be noble anymore. Sherlock could behave better… with some help from these pillows. 

“You won’t sleep?” John checked, voice hesitant. 

“Not if I’m trying to keep to my side of the bed, no,” Sherlock confirmed, wishing it wasn’t true - but it was. 

“But that’s just it, Sherlock. You don’t have to try to do that!” Now that edge in his voice sounded a little desperate. 

“It’s not forever, John,” Sherlock said. He was hoping that with enough practice with ‘the wall’, his sleeping body would learn not to go for a jaunt across the sheets by itself. He was hoping he could train it - but he needed some time. “Just until your ribs are healed.”

John frowned deeply, but apparently decided to stop arguing. Sherlock picked up the duvet from where he had folded it over the chair, and started arranging it over John’s side. John watched, quiet, until he was done. 

“Won’t you get cold?” John’s voice was soft now. Sad. 

“I’m going to get the other duvet from upstairs,” Sherlock said, heading to the door. He passed John, who didn’t move his gaze from the altered bed. 

Once into the hallway, Sherlock paused for a moment, sucking in a huge breath. The strength of John’s negative reaction had been far more than he had anticipated. He had pictured John rolling his eyes good-naturedly at his antics, even trying to help with the set-up - not this. But it really was for the best, he reminded himself as he made himself keep going up to the other bedroom. And not just for Sherlock’s new training regimen. John really did need space to heal, and proper rest. He didn’t need to be manhandled and woken up by someone who didn’t know how to comport themselves properly in a relationship. Plus, there were those times that John was obviously aroused by the situation he found himself in - pinned to the bed by his asexual partner. That wasn’t fair either - and it needed to stop. 

When he returned to the bedroom, John was already under the covers, flat on his back. He glanced at Sherlock, at the bundle of duvet in his arms, then looked back up at the ceiling. Sherlock had to gulp past the feeling of inadequacy that rose along with John’s gaze. All he wanted was for John to be happy, and yet…

He felt his skin start to flush, and hurried to throw the smaller duvet over his side of the bed. He climbed in, and once settled, risked a glance over towards the pillow-barrier. It was so high he could only see a tuft of John’s hair, the tip of his nose. After a moment of helpless staring, John huffed out a breath and then turned, very slowly, onto his uninjured side, until he was facing the door. 

Until he was facing away from Sherlock. 

Swallowing again, Sherlock reached around to the bedside lamp and switched it off. John did the same on his side. 

Even with the pillows in place, Sherlock was certain he would not be getting a lot of sleep that night. 

*******************************

The next day, Sherlock awoke to find John’s side of the bed empty. He felt disoriented, having been up until daylight started to appear behind the curtains, listening to John’s own fitful slumber. The pillow-wall seemed undisturbed, and he was surprised not to have woken when John got up. His phone told him that it was nearing eight-thirty - much earlier than John had been getting up the last few days. 

The groggy feeling continued as he dragged himself into a sitting position. Much as his transport was blaring at him that it wanted more sleep, he couldn’t carry on lazing around if John was on the move. He was bound to need things carried or reached for him, and Sherlock didn’t want him getting any more hurt than he already was. Stumbling from the bed, he rubbed his eyes with both hands then dragged them through his hair, listening to the sounds of the flat. He could hear the soft sounds of the TV, so after a brief stop in the loo to splash water on his face and brush his teeth, he went looking for John. 

John was curled up on the couch - an uncharacteristic pose for him. He usually sat straight, and in recent times it would have been Sherlock draped all over him. This morning though it was the afghan blanket they kept there, and he was staring through hollow eyes at early-morning cartoons. He looked up at Sherlock’s arrival, giving him a brief smile. 

“Sleep OK?” he asked, voice gravelly. 

“Well enough,” Sherlock lied. John looked at him a little longer, then back at the TV. Sherlock took that as his cue to go and make them their morning tea. Usually it was John’s job, but Sherlock was determined to be more responsible.

“Do you want to do something today?” John called, coughing slightly to get his voice working. 

“Do something?”

“Yeah, spend some time together,” John said. There was little inflection in his voice, and Sherlock realized with a sinking heart that John was expecting to be rebuffed. 

He busied himself for a moment with the kettle and other tea-making accoutrements.  _ Spending time together _ made him think of cuddling on the sofa, of intertwined feet under the table, of the constant contact of hugs and touches. That was all obviously out, but maybe there was something else they could do…

“Yes, let’s do something,” he said decisively, then looked over at John with an encouraging smile. John looked back, still tired, but now there was a hint of happy surprise there. Encouraged, Sherlock continued, “Would you like to go to the park? You can’t exactly go for a run, but we can walk around, feed the ducks…”

“Have an ice cream,” John said, smiling more brightly now. 

“Well, it’s probably a bit too cold for ice cream…”

“Since when?” John laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re too responsible for ice cream in autumn, now. I want a ninety-nine.”

“Then a ninety-nine, you will have,” Sherlock said, turning back to the tea. When he carried it over to hand one to John, John looked up at him with a light in his eyes that he hadn’t seen since they came back from the hospital. Obviously, he had been remiss in staying away to this extent. He settled in his chair, began making lightly-snide comments about the shows John was watching, and John bantered back from under his blanket. No, he shouldn’t deny his partner quality time together. It was just the physical side he needed to sort out - and he hoped by keeping John moving, that wouldn’t be an issue. 

Two hours (and many IQ points lost to morning television) later, Sherlock and John were wrapped up and strolling around the local park. Sherlock was dutifully carrying half a loaf of bread still in its bag, listening to John extole on the virtues of the perfect ninety-nine. 

“...can’t be the scoop kind. It has to be the soft-whip one to be a real ninety-nine. And with a proper Cadbury’s flake, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock echoed, puzzled. 

John looked over at him while they continued on, eyebrows narrowing. He was swinging one arm, the other still held protectively close to his side, but he looked a lot better even under the overcast British sky. 

“Don’t tell me that you’ve never had a ninety-nine?”

“Vanilla ice cream with a chocolate flake?”

“No! Haven’t you been listening? Soft-whip vanilla ice cream from a cheap ice-cream van, and a Cadbury’s chocolate flake!”

Sherlock couldn’t help it - he laughed, and John immediately laughed too. Then, he did something… extraordinary…

His free arm which had been swinging away brushed against Sherlock’s, and he linked their gloved hands together. As if it were nothing! 

As if it weren’t  _ everything. _

Sherlock almost tripped over, but John didn’t let the moment descend into awkwardness, instead tugging him along impatiently. “Come on! Ducks first, then ice-cream van! Surely the world’s only consulting detective should be able to manage  _ that!” _

So Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled along, becoming at once happier and more confused the closer to the duck-pond they got. He was exhausted from the last few nights’ poor sleep, but elated all the same. John was holding his hand,  _ in public. _ John was claiming Sherlock  _ as his own, _ right out there where all the park-goers could see. That family, those two men, that young lady… they could all see John holding Sherlock’s hand!

Was this a direct result of him toning-down his clingy ways? There was no real way to tell - but he’d better keep it up just in case. His hand fit in John’s as a key fits a lock, and he had no intention of walking around hand-less again if he could help it. Still though, something was niggling at him...

The path disappeared behind some bushes. Sherlock knew that it emerged after some seven paces to the other side, with a clear view of the water and the grass beyond. John was still pulling him along, but just as they set foot on the covered path the niggling feeling became a full-on blaring alarm: DANGER.

Too late - one of the two men they had passed earlier appeared ahead of them, and with a glance Sherlock confirmed the other had appeared behind. Stupid! He had allowed John’s hand-holding to distract him, and now they were facing two members of the same Albanian gang that had injured John in the first place. 

“Vatican cameos,” he hissed, squeezing John’s hand, then letting go. John immediately stepped to Sherlock’s side, facing the blonde man in front, while Sherlock whirled to face the one behind.

“Mr. Fisnik would like a word, Mr. Holmes,” the man facing him said conversationally, accent thick. “He’s a bit upset with you.”

“Is he? Well, I’m a bit upset with him,” Sherlock snapped, dropping his stance a little. 

“Sherlock…” John warned, pressed up against Sherlock’s side but facing the opposite direction. His arm was between them, still bent and held close to protect his injured ribs, and Sherlock calculated that their chances of getting out of this without further injury were… low. His head was swimming with the adrenaline and lack of sleep, but he held himself under iron control. 

“You know we won’t come quietly,” Sherlock said, shifting his weight. His would-be assailant laughed. 

“Glad to hear it,” he said, bringing his hands out of his pockets. He was holding a pair of industrial zip-ties, and the alarms screaming in Sherlock’s mind went up a few decibels. The man leered, then sprang forward. Sherlock held his position, determined to protect John, but the force and weight of the other knocked him back even as he got in some preemptive hits of his own. John was a whirl of motion next to him, and he heard twigs and branches snapping as apparently he was making use of their surroundings to keep up his end of the fight. Sherlock’s attacker was bigger, stockier, but it didn’t make him slower. It was Sherlock who was feeling slow, as he dodged and weaved and cursed his lack of care that had led them here. He heard John grunt off to the side, couldn’t tell if it were in pain or not, and for a moment, he flicked his eyes that way to look. 

Mistake.

The sudden heavy pain to the side of his head made stars glimmer around the edges of his vision; he tasted copper, and one knee hit the ground. 

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock raised his arms as another blow fell, forcing his eyes to open even as his head continued to ring like a bell - repeated pain moving back and forth across it. He cried out, arms above his head, vision fixed on the man’s shoes and the dirty path beneath as punches rained down from above. John was shouting something but it seemed muffled against the ringing in Sherlock’s ears - or was his voice muffled, covered with cloth; were they taking John away…?

Sherlock pushed off with his knee and foot, launching blindly upwards and colliding with something to the satisfying sound of a broken bone, followed by an inarticulate howl. Barely able to see for the pain, Sherlock got to his feet just as the man lunged towards him again, blood streaming from his broken nose… but then he went down. He went down as John took his legs out in a rugby tackle from the side, and Sherlock half-fell into a crouching position to help restrain him. 

“Jesus!” John cursed, smacking the man in the back of the head for good measure as Sherlock used the zip-ties to bind his hands, his own shaking almost uncontrollably. He then fell back on his behind, looking around the scene as if from underwater. John’s attacker was nowhere to be seen, but there was considerable damage to the surrounding plants. A curious member of the public appeared for a moment, then beat a hasty retreat, phone already in hand - so help was on the way. John meanwhile was sitting on the remaining man’s back, shouting… something?

“...hear me? Sherlock please say something!”

“M’alright,” Sherlock tried, tongue feeling thick and heavy. “Just… head h’rts.”

“You just sit right there!” John said, loudly. At least it all seemed very loud to Sherlock. “You’ve probably got a concussion, just sit there and don’t move.”

Sherlock nodded, then immediately regretted it as his vision went blank for a moment, then nausea rose. He heaved, turning his head to the side, though nothing came out. He looked back at John, who was holding the twisting, snarling criminal in place. John’s face was white as a sheet, and Sherlock suddenly remembered his ribs. 

“John? Ribs?”

“Hey, don’t worry about that. They hurt but they’ll be fine, I’m more worried about your head.”

“S’OK,” Sherlock assured him. “I’ve go’ two, anyway.”

“Two? Two what?”

Sherlock wasn’t completely sure either. 

“Alright, let’s be having you!” came a shout that could only be from a policeman. Sherlock peered down the path, but everything was a bit too blurry still. The first burn of the pain was starting to recede, but the confusion and slowness was not. Uniformed police arrived, talking into their radios, all being loud, loud, loud, and then John was there. John was crouching next to him, gentle hands moving around the ache on his head. 

“Shhh, it’s OK. You’re going to have a hell of a lump there,” he said, voice worried. Sherlock didn’t know why he was telling him to shush, until he realized that distressed little sound was coming from him, and not John. John’s face was swimming in and out of his vision, first focused, then not, and all Sherlock wanted to do was reach out to hold him in place, hold him where he should be…

“No,” Sherlock said out loud, as sternly as he was able. He folded his misbehaving arms closer into his chest, tangling them together. John’s hands found his, tried to move his unyielding limbs, saying something about the ER and an x-ray…

“No!” Sherlock said, louder and more bewildered. “No clingin’! No octopus!”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and John’s hands went away for a moment. All was quiet, and he shivered as the cold from the ground made itself known. Sherlock sighed, uncurled, balanced his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. It really was aching, and he just wanted to go home and lie in a dark, quiet room. 

And then it was warm. There was something warm, and strong, and humming pressed up against his back. Or… no, not humming. Talking? It sounded nonsensical whatever it was, but the warmth curled around his chest, under his arms, and puffed hot air on the back of his neck. 

“You’re not clingy, Sherlock. I’m sorry I ever said that,” John’s voice floated in from somewhere, and Sherlock’s head throbbed with every syllable. 

“‘M’n octopus,” Sherlock confessed morosely. “M’not good.”

The warmth pressed closer, and new voices started echoing around his head. He could still hear John though. He would always hear John. 

“You  _ are  _ good,” John said, and he sounded so,  _ so sad _ that Sherlock tried to lift his head, but then the retching was back. “Easy,” John said, voice taught with concern. “The paramedics are going to take you to the hospital. I’ll get a ride with the coppers, and I’ll see you soon, OK?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed, if only to make John sound less sad. Why was he sad? Then foreign hands were guiding him to lie on something only barely less cold than the ground, and his swimming vision swam even more as they moved him, and the glimmering lights all around the sides of his eyes grew brighter, and all the confusing sounds melted away…

*************************

Sherlock came to with a groan. He looked around - hospital. ER. Main ward, not ICU. Voices from the other side of the curtain, one of them John’s, one of them… oh no...

He started raising his head and oh, that was really a different kind of pain, wasn’t it? It blossomed from the side of his head like a flower, crushing all thought for a moment until he rode it out. He must have groaned even louder, because the next time he looked up John was there, and so was…

“Mycroft,” he said, missing the mark of his normal exasperation and sounding much more whiny. He managed to get into a sitting position, John hovering at the side of the bed but not interfering. He noticed that John’s knuckles were split, already held together with butterfly stitches, and when he looked at his face he could see the strain of concealed-pain there. 

Myroft of course, looked like he always did these days - dapper and vaguely disinterested. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded when he was sure he could speak without vomiting everywhere. 

“Brotherly concern, I assure you,” Mycroft said, cut-glass affected voice grating on Sherlock’s ears. 

“Really? Well you can take your brotherly concern and…”

“Sherlock,” John said, as John always did - but he had also rested his hand on his arm, and was not removing it. It reminded Sherlock suddenly of walking in the park, hand in hand. Had that really happened? It was all very fuzzy. He blinked at the hand on his arm, blinked at the butterfly stitches on John’s hand, blinked back up at Mycroft. 

“Are you sure it’s just a concussion?” Mycroft directed over Sherlock’s head, towards John. 

“Yes, thankfully. He’ll feel a lot better after some meds and some sleep though.”

“I shall expedite your return to Baker Street with some haste,” Mycroft said smoothly, taking out his phone and tapping something rapidly on it. The whole interaction was making Sherlock feel slow, and while he hated feeling slow in general, he despised feeling slow in front of his brother even more. 

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Sherlock bit out, fisting his hands in his trousers. His Belstaff was draped over the back of John’s chair, but thankfully he hadn’t been manhandled into hospital scrubs. 

“The Albanians are after you,” Mycroft said with a sigh, putting his phone away. John’s hand tightened on Sherlock’s arm. 

“We noticed that, thanks,” Sherlock said, then turned slowly to John, wincing. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” John said, with a flash of a tight smile. “My ribs might have suffered a setback, but no punctures, no big problems.”

“It is rather more serious than you imagine, brother mine,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock sighed as he looked back at him. “Their leader, a Mr. Fisnik, apparently thinks that if he can get his hands on you, the British government will allow him certain concessions in order to further the goals of his organisation.”

“The British government - meaning you?” Sherlock said, witheringly.

“Hmm, yes. He is aware of our connection.” Mycroft lifted up his ubiquitous umbrella and turned it side to side. To the casual observer, he was just a fastidious man looking for dirt on the expensive bamboo handle. To Sherlock though, it was a reminder that Mycroft was armed, and in his own way, dangerous. His brother was not amused by the games of this Albanian. 

Sherlock found himself unexpectedly… touched, at the thought. 

“So what’s the plan?” John asked, and Mycroft let the umbrella drop back down into its usual place. 

“Now, you return to Baker Street, where I will provide a full covert security detail to ensure your safety. I would insist on you both moving to a safehouse…”

Sherlock snorted, then groaned as it made his head hurt.

“... but that would be an exercise in futility if ever there was one,” finished Mycroft. “In the meantime, my team will track down Mr. Fisnik and convince him to divert his attentions elsewhere.”

“Convince him?” John asked, something grim in his tone. 

“Mmm, yes.  _ Thoroughly  _ convince.”

John hummed in satisfaction at that, and Sherlock felt mildly apprehensive at the look that passed between the two of them. 

“So, what? We just sit in the house and do… what?” Sherlock groused, swinging his legs carefully over the side of the bed. He had yet to raise his hand to feel the side of his head, almost afraid of what he was going to find there. 

“Recover, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a raised eyebrow. “You have a serious concussion, and Dr. Watson has broken ribs. You both need some rest and relaxation. And, I gather congratulations are in order?”

Sherlock froze for a moment, then tried to cover it by settling himself better in a seated position. He did not want to do this now, not with a splitting headache and not with his interfering brother. But…

“Yes, that’s right,” John said, stepping even closer and transferring the grip on his arm up to where his shoulder met his neck. “Took us long enough, I know,” he said, some kind of forced joviality in his voice. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, as if the whole thing was just too boring for words. “Well, then you should be perfectly happy resting at home with your beau for a week or two, Sherlock.”

“A week or two?” Sherlock said, appalled, choosing to skate right by the  _ beau  _ comment. He was thrown enough by their situation and John’s public admission before adding anything else into the mix.

“You didn’t mind when it was just me,” said John, this time with real amusement. 

“Well… yes, but…”

“No ‘but’s, Sherlock,” said Mycroft sternly. “You will go home, you will rest up with your doctor, and when I inform you that it is safe you will continue to go about your life in whatever ridiculous fashion you see fit. Is that clear?”

Sherlock glared at the tip of the umbrella where it tapped once against the floor. 

“We’re clear, Mycroft,” John said, letting go of Sherlock’s shoulder. Aghast, Sherlock watched him extend his injured hand to Mycroft, who shook it with some ceremony. Mycroft pulled out his phone again, raised an eyebrow. 

“Your chariot awaits, gentlemen. See you in a week - or two.”

**********************

The car ride was a special kind of hell. Sherlock couldn’t rest his head against the window as the vibrations felt like they were rattling his brain around his skull. Leaning back was bad too, as his head bounced against the cushion, so he was forced to hold himself rigid, spine straight. John had looked like he wanted to say something, but had settled on holding onto Sherlock’s hand on the cushion between them instead. 

When they finally arrived, Sherlock looked blearily up the stairs to the flat and only just resisted the urge to just curl up and sleep on the hallway floor instead. If John hadn’t been there, he might have. But instead, he slowly made his way up, going straight through and into the bedroom to flop, coat and all, onto his side of the bed. The pillows were arranged exactly as before, and he realized it was only a few hours since they had left the flat, happy to be doing something together. Well, they had certainly done something together, hadn’t they? Fighting off potential kidnappers - a proper couple’s activity if ever there was one. 

The guilt he had felt in the park came rushing back. He had led John blindly into a trap - a secluded area, out of sight, in the blind spot of security cameras - Mycroft was right to treat him like an idiot. He was one. 

“Hey, now,” John said, entering the room. He had taken off his own outerwear and socks and was looking down at Sherlock with fond exasperation. “You can’t sleep like that.”

“Can,” Sherlock grumped, though he did sit slowly up again and shuck out of his large coat. “Doesn’t matter anyway - stuck inside for weeks.”

“For two weeks, maybe,” John said, taking the Belstaff, scarf and gloves from him and depositing the pile on the dressing table. “Mycroft’s right - you do need to rest, and heal. We both do. And no sleeping until you’ve had your meds.”

“Ugh, can you please not say that when I’m feeling ill?”

“What, meds?”

“No,” Sherlock grumbled, laying back down.  _ “Mycroft’s right.” _

**********************************

Sherlock woke up slowly. He had been having a lovely dream - he was swimming with John, in warm, clear water. He could see bright corals and fish all around them, and John’s delighted laugh when the little creatures swam close enough to nibble his toes was as warm as the water they swam in. Sherlock felt content, happy - there was nothing to worry about, no specific way to behave. He could just be, here in this perfect ocean, and John could just be, with him. The warm waves lapped at his back and shoulders, the breeze puffed through his hair…

He was in bed, lying on his side. His head immediately reminded him of yesterday’s events, but it did feel somewhat better. But, something was different…

There was an arm around his middle. John’s arm, his brain quickly edited, before his heart could leap its way out of his chest. And… and John’s other arm was under his neck, curled around his shoulder. That was John pressed against his back, John breathing into his hair… and he had done that at the park too… hadn’t he? 

John!

Sherlock gasped as he came fully awake, immediately cringing away from John’s hold a little. What had happened to the pillow-wall? His question was answered as he looked at the vanity table - his coat was gone, replaced by a pile of pillows and towels. John must have removed them, but… but why?

_ This is why, _ his brain said in a voice that sounded depressingly like Mycroft, indicating the slowly moving limbs trying to pull him back to John’s embrace. John had wanted to hug him while he was sleeping, to… hold him. But… that was what Sherlock used to do…

It was probably because he was hurt. Yes. He had been hurt and confused, probably acting even more childishly than usual, so John, kind John, had taken care of him - as doctors do. 

Best not to get used to it. 

“Hmm, come back here,” John groused, voice thick with sleep as Sherlock started to edge his way out of his grip. 

“Need the loo,” Sherlock whispered, and it wasn’t actually a lie. The fact that it would also get him out of a precarious situation in which he felt more lost than in a blizzard was just a happy coincidence. 

John made some kind of disgruntled sigh, but he relaxed his grip, allowing Sherlock to carefully get to his feet. He already felt a lot more steady than the previous evening, when the whole room had been rocking as if inside a ship. 

“Hurry back,” John said sternly, as if it were an order, and Sherlock felt himself blush as he headed into the bathroom. 

He looked a state. The blow to his head hadn’t split the skin, thankfully, so at least he wasn’t covered in blood - not that John would have let him sleep like that if he was. But he had slept in his dress shirt and suit trousers, both wrinkled beyond hope, and now the blush was fading he still had that faintly grey tinge in his skin of someone who has recently been put through a trial. He sighed at his reflection, and after using the toilet and cleaning his teeth, he washed his face as thoroughly as his throbbing head would allow. It certainly wasn’t going to allow for a shower, at least not today, so he padded quietly back into the bedroom in search of his pajamas. 

“Sh’rlock?” John called as Sherlock opened the dresser drawer and pulled out a blue matching set. “Come back to bed.”

“I’m awake now,” Sherlock said softly, skin prickling at the thought of getting back in next to John. He wanted to - longed to, but he didn’t know what was right anymore. “I’ll just… I’ll just change…” He backed out of the room and into the bathroom again, ashamed. He changed into the pajamas, wondering how to salvage the situation, but when he came back out of the bathroom John was just pulling on a pair of jeans while cracking a massive yawn. 

“If you’re up, I’m up,” John said by way of explanation. “And all my pajamas are dirty - I’ll put the washer on.”

“I can…”

“No. No, you’ve been taking care of me, and you probably will again in a day or two once your head is a bit better. But for today - your only job is to rest.” He walked over to Sherlock then, slowly, deliberately. Sherlock found himself tensing, not sure what to expect. John raised his hands, and ever-so-carefully ran them both through Sherlock’s hair. One hand was that of a doctor, seeking out the large bump and probing gently. The other… the other ruffled, and scritched, until Sherlock let out the breath he didn’t understand why he was holding. 

“You go set up the TV,” John said with a soft smile. “It’s morning cartoons again, I’m afraid.” He then leaned up and kissed the very edge of Sherlock’s jaw, before stepping back. Sherlock stared at him. 

“Go on,” John said, making a shoo-ing motion towards the living room, so Sherlock did as he was told. 

******************

Some time later, after nibbling at the toast John brought him, rolling his eyes (carefully) at the various shows John insisted they watch, Sherlock glanced around the room from his chair for one of his robes. He wasn’t a fan of the scratchy blanket they kept on the couch, and wanted the warmth and comfort of his familiar dressing gowns. He didn’t see any, and turned to John to ask…

“I hung them all up,” John answered before he could do so. “Did a bit of tidying after you fell asleep last night.” He was frowning at the TV, remote in hand. Sherlock didn’t bring up the fact that John had also dismantled the literal defences in their bed that Sherlock had gone to such effort to build. Levering himself off the couch and glad of the respite Sherlock went back into the bedroom and opened the closet door. His robes were hung up next to his Belstaff, but there was something else there too - a yellow piece of paper, a large sticky-note, attached to one of the robes. He peeled it off, noting John’s neat handwriting with some surprise. Even before reading it, Sherlock could tell that John had copied whatever it was from somewhere:

_ The octopus is a highly misunderstood animal. Everyone knows they are intelligent, but what they don’t know is that they are social. They spend a lot of time alone, but when an octopus decides it wants company, it will purposefully go and seek it out. They have even been known to befriend humans, on very rare occasions. _

He stared at the paper. He looked back at his robes, all hanging in a row, as if they might be able to explain this. 

_ Octopus, _ his mind supplied, apparently unable to process anything except the stinking obvious. This is  _ about you. _

_...a highly misunderstood animal… _

_...befriend humans… _

_...go and seek it out… _

Sherlock looked around the room, spotted the chemistry journal he had been reading days ago. He opened the cover, then stuck the note on the inside. He read it again, just to be sure. He felt confused,  _ concussed, _ but… but a little bit happier, too. 

He grabbed a robe on the way back to the living room. John was still sitting on the couch as he had been, looking a little too innocent, but his eyes were trained on the TV as if he had nothing to say. Unsure what  _ he _ would say, Sherlock decided he would follow suit. 

If this time he chose to sit opposite John on the couch, instead of on the chair - well, it was easier to see the TV from there. And if John smiled just a little wider at the TV when he did so… well. Perhaps the shows weren’t that bad, after all.

[](https://ibb.co/17qBFVv)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the fantastic [FreedomAttack!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/freedomattack)
> 
> Beta read by Raechem :-D
> 
> One chapter to go! I love to read your comments so let me know what you think....


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